I miss tasting words on the tip of my tongue flow from my mind to my keys, and I miss sculpting poems and re-sculpting and adding pieces here and there. I miss the layers that come from emotions piled upon one another to form a collage of feelings displayed for anyone to see. I miss the trickling of open thoughts and open wounds into stinging scars and stinging eyelids. I miss the constellations I drew with my starry thoughts. I miss thinking about how I could write sonnets about someone’s smile and haikus about his eyes. I remembering reading and re-reading myself, memorizing my story chapter by chapter. I remember studying who I was and why I mattered and asking myself the same questions over and over again. who am i who am i what am i why am i how am i… I remember the prologue. I remember the introduction. I remember the exposition and the conflicts and the rising action and the plot holes and the flashbacks and the never-ending flow of thoughts. I remembering not understanding. I remembering being afraid to finish.